Hours to Cherish (2 page)

To accept the pain, Cat convinced herself that Jason had been old and sick. Death had brought relief from the tortures of his illness, and surely, if there was a heaven, Jason Windemere basked among the angels.

Rationalizing Clayton’s death was a slower agony. And so, to endure, Cat continually reminded herself that their marriage had been a disaster. He had never loved her; he had used her to receive the unique gifts only her father could leave behind.

As time passed, the serenity that had begun as a shell became fact. She was free, the ruler of her own destiny. The strength and will that had been hers in her youth had doubled. She loved the island; she loved life. She owned the well-renowned Heaven’s Harbour and she loved all that her work of maintaining the docks and the quaint lodge entailed. She was almost the historian her father had been; the prestigious and the wealthy sailed from the mainland and the States seeking not only the secluded pleasure of the lodge but its vivacious, beautiful, and intellectual mistress. Cat was a spirit who compelled those who loved the sea to the island. She could best any man in a catamaran, and yet few could resent her prowess. She could challenge the wind in any vessel, dare the ocean with free dives to forty feet, but she was, first and foremost in any venture, uniquely, regally, enticingly feminine.

As she stood on the dock this particular afternoon, her past was the furthest thing from her mind. It had been almost seven years since Clay Miller had disappeared, and in the last four Cat had been enjoying herself. She was the reigning queen of her island, and she knew it. It was fun to date the fascinating men who sailed the waters of the Bahamas, and it was easy now to remain aloof. Cat had no intention of being reined in again. Any man in her life would have to recognize her independence. Only recently had she considered marriage again, and that only because she believed she was actually beginning to care deeply for a man again.

Jules DeVante was a Frenchman who, it seemed, owned half the Caribbean as well as half of the Bahamas. They had met when Jules attempted to purchase Tiger Cay. Although Cat had no intention of ever selling the cay, she was captivated by the Old World charm of the Frenchman. Their relationship had flourished charmingly. Although secretly amused by his somewhat outdated moral principles (she was wife material—one only had
affairs
with loose women), she was also relieved that Jules put no pressure upon their physical relationship. She did love Jules—he was handsome, courteous, and totally endearing—but she had long ago decided that passion had little to do with love, and her experience with passion had left her quite sure it was something one was better off living without. Jules’ kisses were tender and caring. They stirred within her feelings of contentment. That and compatibility were the important ingredients for marriage.

Cat knew Jules considered them to be engaged and the prospect of marriage with him was pleasing. So far he had made no protests about her managing her own property. He—like the one-time husband who was now but a vague memory—was in the business of salvage diving. His vast fortune had come from the treasures he had recovered from the sea, and consequently, despite his determined wooing, he was frequently away from Tiger Cay. But he showed no signs of ridiculous jealousy. Long before he had actually met Cat, he had heard about the gracious beauty who ruled Tiger Cay. Those who had dated her spoke of her with a certain misty-eyed reverence and remorse. Her laughter was a melody, the raging spirit of the sea played in her eyes—but like the white-foamed surf of that same azure sea, she was untouchable.

There was only one problem with Jules and that was a problem that ironically went along with the Old World charm she loved. It seemed that he humored her as far as Tiger Cay went, having little faith in her productive abilities because she was a woman. And that infuriating reality had stunned her when she had told him of her new plans.

Just recently, while going through her father’s papers and charts, the excitement of her discovery had hit her with the force of a brick. She was sure, completely and positively sure, that she had the only true knowledge of a certain coveted galleon, one that had carried vast treasures from Peru in the heyday of the Spanish Main.

Cat had tentatively broached to Jules the subject of launching her own salvage expedition. And for the first time in their relationship, she had found herself furious. Jules had point-blank—and laughingly—refused to fund any such expedition. He would be happy, of course, to listen to her ideas and pursue them himself.

Cat had stubbornly refused. Ownership of the island, Tiger Cay, was hers; it was the independence she craved. She also felt responsible for the community of eight hundred-odd islanders. The lodge, Heaven’s Harbour, did well—but Cat also dealt with a tremendous overhead. The one flaw in her carefree existence was the fear that she could lose Tiger Cay. Of course, when she married Jules, she would never need to fear any financial threat. But his money would make Tiger Cay his island.

Even for a man she loved, Cat would not give up Tiger Cay.

And so she determined that she alone would find the treasure of the
Santa Anita.
The
Santa Anita
also touched other stirrings in her heart. If the ship was discovered, it would be one of the greatest historical finds of the century. A dedication to the quiet but great man who had been her father.

Funding, Cat knew, would be a touchy subject. Jules would be crushed if she approached another salvage company. And even if she did decide Jules deserved to be crushed for scorning her abilities, she would have to face being turned down by others. Or worse. Someone, becoming suspicious of just what documentation she was holding that gave clues to the actual whereabouts of the mysteriously disappeared galleon, might try to follow her and beat her to the claim.

How many thousands of dollars would she need to search for the
Santa Anita
? Hundreds. …

If all else failed, Cat knew, she would have to turn back to Jules, to place her faith in him. After all, Jules would always care for her, and care for all that was hers.

But why couldn’t she give up that strand of independence? It was a dilemma she had been pondering for some months.

But now, as she stood on the dock, her heart was racing. She was nervous, yet exhilarated. An answer—an answer that might not be considered quite legitimate, but an answer nevertheless—was suddenly facing her.

She had often accepted challenges from seasoned sailors to race her Hobie Cat from the channel marker to the Leewood reef and back.

She had never lost. Before, it had always been a game. But today, she was gambling for high stakes.

She wasn’t nervous because she feared she would lose. She knew the winds, the currents, and the tides. She had also judiciously studied the sailors she was up against. Jim McCay was good but too reckless. He was likely to spill upon the shoal. Clancy Barker from West Palm Beach was just the opposite—an excellent man on a yacht, but overly cautious when it came to smaller sails. Three other contenders weren’t even worth her worry.

It was the thought of what she was doing that made her nervous. She was a bit of a gambler at heart, but this was different. The bet on each race was fifteen thousand dollars and the amounts made her feel a bit ill.

It was actually high-seas robbery on her part, almost akin to piracy. But although the money wouldn’t be all that she needed, it would be a damned good start. Enough for her to search out the
Santa Anita
and stake her claim.

Cat firmly squelched all her feelings of guilt. She was betting against grown men—men who could easily afford to lose the money. Like little children, they were determined to best her. She shrugged, and decided that if they chose to throw their money away, it was their own folly.

A smile flitted across her features. She tilted her face to the fresh Bahamian breeze and her pony-tailed sable hair lifted in glorious strands to the wind. She faced her contenders. “Okay, gentlemen,” she murmured sweetly. “Who’s first?”

Jim McCay stepped up. “I guess you start with me, Cat.” He shook her hand. “Gentleman’s agreement with a lady, ma’am.”

Cat chuckled in return. He was brash, but she liked Jim. He was a young lawyer from Maine, and she often wondered how he could manage to keep a practice when he spent most his time in the Bahamas.

“It’s agreed that Sam stands as final judge?” Cat asked.

McCay nodded. Sam was Cat’s dockman—a Bahamian with a black-satin body the size and strength of a brick wall. Sam was ageless; he had taught Cat the island when she was a child, and now he was more friend and mentor than employee.

He was frowning now, his dark eyes highly disapproving.

“Sam is final judge,” McCay agreed. The other men nodded silent approval. The honesty of the gentle giant would never be questioned.

“Let’s get to it then, shall we?” McCay grinned.

“You’re on!” Cat laughed.

Jim moved down the dock, joined by the others who would watch the action. On the shore Cat could see that half her island had turned out for the races. Anne Blackstone, the beautiful Eurasian who taught the children of Tiger Cay’s single grammar school, had even let the children out of classes for the event. Cat’s nervousness made her queasy. Was what she was doing right? She doubted Jules would think so. But after the fact, she could surely cajole Jules from anger.

“I don’t like this, Cat Miller, not one bit!”

Sam’s broad hand caught her arm right before she could jump to her Hobie Cat. She lightly tugged at her arm to pull away.

“Sam—I know what I’m doing.”

“The Frenchie isn’t gonna like it,” Sam scowled, but Cat knew that concern prompted his harsh warning.

“Sam,” Cat said softly. “Jules doesn’t ever have to hear about this.”

“Ummph! News travels fast on the grapevine, Cat.”

Cat listened to Sam’s beautiful patois uneasily. He was right. Her races would hardly be kept secret, although she knew the islanders would never give her away.

“Jules will understand when I explain,” Cat insisted.

“You haven’t got seventy-five thousand dollars.”

Cat lowered her eyes and shrugged. “I’m not going to lose these races, Sam.”

Muttering his disapproval beneath his breath, Sam left her, powerful arms crossed over his chest. Cat raised her sail and easily followed McCay out to the marker, automatically testing the feel of the breeze. Calculation was the factor that would give her the race.

Positions were taken by the marker. From the shore, Sam fired a single shot. The race was on.

Cat let out her sheet line, hiking out for balance as the sail caught. Her entire attention turned to the task at hand. She didn’t notice that another man had joined those on the dock.

He was about the same size as Sam, younger, though, and trimmer. He stood barefoot in faded blue cutoff jeans. His skin was very, very bronze, as if he seldom left the sun. His hair was a tawny color, coarse, and bleached almost white in streaks from constant exposure. His handsome physique was visible even in a crowd of healthy sun worshipers, but that was about all. His chin was covered with a thick beard, not fussily clipped but evenly trimmed. His full, sensual lips were hidden by a mustache. His eyes were guarded beneath a pair of very dark sunglasses.

He stood near the beach, in the background, but though his eyes were hidden, they were sharp and shrewdly assessing.

He watched the race and studied Cat as she had previously studied her contenders. He watched as she won race after race. An eyebrow lifted as she graciously consoled the losers, assuring them that the wind had been with her and that they were fine sailors.

Still, the victory was in her eyes.

He shrugged inwardly. She had always needed a bit of taming.

His vision flickered briefly over her lean, lithe body, her firmly shaped legs, long and silky to the eyes, her breasts straining slightly against the cotton of her shirt. He smiled slightly and felt a stirring within him. Then he lifted his head slightly and closed his eyes. He turned his concentration to the breeze, feeling it with his entire body. And then, his hands casually on his hips, he moved down the dock to issue his challenge.

E
XHILARATION WAS TAKING CAT
for a very high ride. Her guilt was buried deep beneath her triumph as she tried to control her exuberance and slip an arm through that of Clancy Barker. The crusty old seadog was looking so crestfallen she felt she had to cheer him up.

“Come on, Clance, I’ll buy you a Bahama Smash up at the lodge,” Cat said. “That will take the sting away!”

“Hmmph!” Clancy sniffed dejectedly. “I don’t know, Cat. I thought I had you for sure on the turn.”

Cat lowered her eyes to hide her smile. Clancy hadn’t even been close at the turn. “The turn did almost do me in, Clance,” she said aloud. “Next time, maybe …” Cat paused with her eyes brilliantly shining and turned around to hail the other sailors. They were still staring at the crystal-clear water of the harbor, apparently shell-shocked. It was impossible that a woman had beaten them all.

“Come on, guys!” Cat laughed. “I’m picking up the tab!”

Jim turned to her with a sheepish grin. “This is one time, Cat, when I will let you pick up the tab!”

Cat had been walking backward as she spoke. She pivoted again just in time to avoid colliding with the man walking toward her.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, frowning and automatically assessing the stranger. Hers were the only docks on the island, and the tiny airstrip was seldom used. She hadn’t seen this man before, she was sure, but there was something about him that made her think she
should
know him. His sun-sleeked torso was the deep brown acquired only after continuous exposure to the elements; his body was that of a man who lived and breathed a physical life. Even next to Jim, who was superbly toned, this newcomer was awesome. At five eight, Cat seldom found herself looking up as she was now. A little flutter of nerves tickled her stomach, and it was a disturbing feeling because she couldn’t quite pinpoint the cause. She was dimly aware that a certain vitality emanated from the man; something about him permeated the air with an almost primitive masculinity.